Deliver Us To Temptation
by kate jones lives
Summary: There's always a need lingering inside when the time comes to leave. And Michael is leaving.
1. Boxes

Deliver Us To Temptation  
Chapter 1: Boxes  
  
Michael Vaughn stands before his nearly empty closet. As he glances around the room, the fact that he will no longer be located in Los Angeles finally starts to register. Boxes are strategically located at arm's length from closets and drawers; boxes that hold his clothing, decorative objects he doesn't remember buying, and his endless papers.  
  
The last few days have been spent locked in the house, stuffing opened cardboard cubes with his possesions. Sunlight is shining through the windows of his bedroom, which is slowly becoming bigger than Michael ever remembered it being before. Sick of pretending to neatly place his suits in a box, he leaves the room that will no longer be his. The room that forces him to remember everything from the Joey's Pizza calls to the bodies entertwined on the bed.  
  
He goes to the kitchen, knowing only a few memories lie there. All of the drawers are closed, but he knows they are full. Finally, a job that doesn't require any thinking. The first few junk drawers go by quickly. He gets into a routine by the third: pull it out, dump everything into the box in front of him, stick it back in its hole, next. The fourth drawer contains silverware. His mother is what comes to mind as he is about to flip it over; he places it on the counter instead. The fifth is once again full of odds and ends—thank god. Back to the routine.  
  
He passes the stove and is almost at the refrigerator when he stops. Something metal and shiny just fell into the box; something distinctly key-shaped. Michael doesn't remember putting any sort of spare key in a drawer—but then again, who does? He kneels so he can dig into the box and finds it. He holds it up and it catches the rays coming through the skylight.  
  
Suddenly, he remembers.  
  
Michael pockets the key, wondering for only a fleeting moment what he's going to do with it. A receipt sitting perfectly on the top of the pile in the box jars his train of thought. He picks it up and reads it, realizing what it's for: that antique picture frame he bought so many years ago, with only one person in mind as he handed over the cash to the vendor.  
  
He crumples it in his fist and throws it back in the box, too lazy to get up and find a wastebasket. At the top of the pile now is another receipt, this one for a dinner. In France. He shakes the box, shaking his mind with it. A sheet of paper flies out as he moves the cardboard pensieve. It's a reservation confirmation from the Bellagio of Las Vegas.  
  
Complete darkness, her lips, his hands...  
  
"What the fuck is this—the Sydney drawer?" Just saying the name makes him shiver. He stands and kicks the box away, watching it slide to a stop just before hitting the dining table.  
  
"Something wrong?" Michael turns around and sees Eric Weiss in the doorway of the kitchen. He glances at the stove and looks back at his friend. "No," he replies, "just remembering something."  
  
"Oh." Eric stands still, surely wondering if he should walk away like nothing happened or as what Michael was remembering.  
  
Michael speaks quickly. "Listen, I'm just heading out to McDonald's for some burgers." He walks past Eric.  
  
"Great, get some for me and Craig."  
  
"Oh yeah," he recalls, stopping and facing Eric once more. "Could you guys bring the table to the front room? I forgot about it yesterday."  
  
"Sure, man. We'll start moving some of the boxes to the front room, too."  
  
"Good." He looks away and starts walking again. "Good." He can feel Eric watching quizzically as he fingers the key in his pocket. 


	2. Gleaming

Deliver Us To Temptation  
Chapter 2: Gleaming  
  
His car is gleaming in the California sun; it helps that he had it washed the day before. He had upgraded earlier this year, from the telltale Agency Buick to a sleek Federal Audi. He gets in and sits in the driver's seat, sliding across the black leather, drumming the steering wheel with his fingers. There's no point in starting the ignition yet; he's not yet positive on his destination.  
  
He decides to listen to some music. It's never calmed him before, so Michael doesn't expect it to do wonders now. Surprisingly, the loud, pumping rock that appears when he turns on the stereo helps him make his decision.  
  
The drive to the freeway he could make in his sleep. The rest, he's not so sure about. The exit he takes he hasn't taken in years, it seems. The side roads he rumbles through have been hiding in his memory. The last streetlight before he reaches where he's going is red, as usual. A sign, perhaps—granting him time to change his mind and turn around.  
  
When he finally stops, it is a block away from his true destination. A car that is all too familiar is coming at him from the opposite direction, and it is what causes him to pull over in front of an apartment building. The SUV makes a sharp left into a driveway one hundred yards in front of him, and he taps the accelerator ever so slightly, inching forward.  
  
The white house is coming into focus too quickly, the red shutters and door filling up his windshield. He allows the driver to make their way into the house before shifting to Park in front of the house beside it. He waits a minute, wondering if he really should go through with this.  
  
There are no second chances allowed, no second thoughts.  
  
He rings the doorbell. She comes to the door, a bright smile on her face for a fleeting moment. It disappears as she realizes who is on her doorstep. He missed that smile, the way it would appear every time she looked at him.  
  
"Michael." Her voice sounds shocked, as if his first name is the only word she can speak aloud. "Come in," she manages, but not before they both stand in silence, staring at one another for a full thirty seconds. She steps aside and allows him to come through the open doorway, closing the door behind him. She takes in his dissheveled appearance: blue jeans and a rugby shirt. She remembers that he is moving, and has most likely been packing for the last few days.  
  
Before she can say anything, he speaks, getting right to the only reason of his visit he forces himself to believe.  
  
"I still have your key." He pulls it out of his pocket, holding it up between them. She takes it from him, trying not to touch him but failing miserably as her fingers graze his hand, reminding them both.  
  
"It's going to be so different when you're gone," she says, looking off to the side.  
  
"We don't see each other than much anyway."  
  
She shrugs. "I guess. Where are you going?" She looks him straight in the eye, pulling the truth out of him and not some elaborate lie.  
  
"Paris. The Agency wants an affiliate who speaks the language, and guess whose name came up first on the list?"  
  
They smile, knowing that though she is fluent, and knows various dialects, she could never be that agent.  
  
"How would I reach you? I mean, if I wanted to talk to you or something." Her question catches him off-guard; they haven't spoken for months, why would she want to reach him in France?  
  
"I'm getting a new cell, so I don't know the number yet. I could leave it with your dad—I doubt I'll see you before I leave."  
  
"Leave it with Weiss," she says quickly. "I know I'll see him."  
  
"Okay."  
  
They stand silently once more. She grazes a mohagony table with her fingertips, he watches her fingers move.  
  
"So," he says, surprising her. "I guess this is it, Sydney."  
  
"I guess it is."  
  
He steps closer to her. "Goodbye kiss?" She nods and finally smiles, leaning in and lightly brushing his lips with hers. She moves back, looking into his eyes. "What?"  
  
His voice is husky with his reply, his eyes gleaming, and his stubble evident on his cheeks as she watches them move. Her only possible response to his words is the crash of fiery passion that ensues as their lips meet again, bodies pressed closely.  
  
"I just remembered how much I've always wanted you." 


	3. Silver

Deliver Us To Temptation  
Chapter 3: Silver  
  
Michael's house is empty, but for the front room. Boxes and furniture are stacked neatly. Two men sit on the couch. One looks at his watch and speaks.  
  
"McDonald's is down the street, right?" Craig asks.  
  
"Yeah." Eric looks at him. "You're thinking he's been gone a little too long, aren't you?"  
  
"I guess." He takes his cellphone out of his pocket and checks for missed calls.  
  
"It's been three fucking hours!" Eric stands, shouting. "How the hell is that not a long time?"  
  
"Easy, Weiss. He's probably just driving around, taking everything in. Vaughn's going to France; I doubt he'll be back anytime soon." Eric grunts and sits down, and Craig continues. "I'll call in, see where his car is." He presses three buttons on his phone and puts it to his ear, receiving an answer in less than ten seconds.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I was just wondering, where's Agent Vaughn's car?"  
  
"His car? Hold on." The sound of frantic typing. "Apparently, it's at Mikro-Self Storage."  
  
"Do I hear a hint of disbelief?"  
  
"Well, the Agency closed it down for, quote, repairs. The doors are welded shut and it's got no electricity. Let me check his other car."  
  
"What are you talking about? The little Audi is the only car he drives around." Craig watches as Eric gets up and walks into the kitchen, looking for food in the refrigerator.  
  
"He's got that Camry, too. That's what I checked."  
  
"What Camry? You know what, that doesn't matter. Just find the Audi."  
  
More typing, then shouts. "I need an extraction team at 1170 San Marino! Now!"  
  
"That's Sydney's house," Eric says. He is standing above Craig and can hear the loud voices himself. Craig looks at him, and they both run out the door to their cars. Two sets of skid marks appear before Michael Vaughn's house.  
  
-  
  
He stands in a corner of the room, bathed in moonlight coming out of the window he seems to be looking out. She watches him from her bed, moving only to breathe. He is fully dressed, in the suit she does not recall him wearing. His hands are in front of him, holding something. She realizes that he is staring at his hands, not the darkness outside. Michael shifts his weight and she sees what he is holding.  
  
It is his gun.  
  
She remembers seeing it a few hours ago, when both were in a frenzy to remove their clothing. She remembers all the other times she's seen it; at the rotunda, at Mikro Self-Storage, in France. It's an object now, a given. One of them is always armed. The silver of the weapon shines, and she shivers. Why is his gaze so set on the gun?  
  
"Michael?" She gets up on her elbows, looking right at him.  
  
His other name had slipped out sometime in the night, and she had continued moaning it when it caused his passion to become more intense. At first, it had seemed foreign on her tongue, a word in a language she hadn't learned. It had become more familiar by the second.  
  
The clock on her nightstand changes from 12:59 to 1:00. He spins around, as if waiting for her to speak, as if he knows she is awake. The gun comes first, then his arm and his face. She sits up completely, the ivory sheet falling down her chest, pouring over her lap.  
  
"Sydney," he says, as the first bullet flies out of the barrel. His aim has always been perfect, yet he shoots the bed. What is he doing? Before she can question his actions, another bullet appears in her shoulder, draining blood and energy. She looks up, and he is gone. The faint sound of her front door closing is the last thing she hears. 


	4. Speed

Deliver Us To Temptation  
Chapter 4: Speed  
  
His drive to the airport is pure speed. He is driving on adrenaline and fear; fear of the future. The past, the past he is okay with. The future isn't set in stone, and he must create his own.  
  
That scares him.  
  
But he has everything organized. The plane ticket, ordered off Hotwire months ago, is in his briefcase, along with his passport and a new gun. At the last minute, he had removed the set of clothes he had put in, on the pretense that he could always get more. His new setting is a club he has been to before, but that doesn't bother him. Money will no longer be an object. Neither will power.  
  
-  
The first year passes quickly. He had not expected to get used to the new routines as fast as he did. Taipei, the moody city Michael is now accustomed with, was easily surrounded by his leash. The beauty is that no one asks about his past. A customer, a dealer, a hooker; they're all the same. Whether he is handing out cocaine from his VIP room or fucking someone in his flat, they care only about the here and now.  
  
He likes that.  
  
He has built up quite a reputation already. He never officially takes on another name, but somehow the name "Matthew" is bestowed upon him. Later, he learns that Matthew means God in an ancient Siberian language. And that is how he is now known; he is God to the addicts, to the prostitutes who need to make a buck. His fame has grown to the point that a new buyer walking in is overwhelmed by the feeling to faint or to fall at his feet purposefully.  
  
Even though he is surrounded by addicts and dealers and drugs, there is something inside that never lets him allow the powder or liquid into his system. A fear, perhaps. Or a memory. He doesn't know. He doesn't know, doesn't linger on it.  
  
The dim setting of his 'office' has been helped by an artificial fog that comes from the actual club and the pounding techno to create a sultriness that has diffused into his voice. He's had one meaningful relationship, but even that was all a ploy to gain a larger empire. It worked, yet she still visits sometimes. He doubts she has real feelings for him, vis-à-vis the fact that he doesn't either.  
  
He never once regrets the decisions he made in his previous life. The only things left from before are the memories; everything else has been shredded, destroyed in more ways than one. Never to be referred to again.  
  
-  
  
He has spent days staring at the gun.  
  
Today is just another one of those days. He sits in his leather executive chair, behind the chrome desk with glass top. He spins the gun by the trigger, willing it to go off. A flash of light bounces off the silencer; he unscrews it, wanting to make the weapon look smaller to him, trying to make its deeds consume less of his infrequent thoughts.  
  
It has been fired only twice, and never reloaded. He always has it with him, wherever he is. He has killed by bullet in Taipei, too many times to count, but with other guns. He keeps this gun with him for only one reason. To haunt him, possibly. It is another one of those things he refuses to linger on.  
  
He hears a knock from the entrance to the room and looks up, starting to take his state-of-the-art Palm Pilot out of his breast pocket. He replaces it with the silver weapon. "Come in." Smooth. Enticing. Perfect.  
  
As he prepares to synchronize the Palm Pilot with the laptop open on his desk, the person who had knocked is perfectly in front of him, somehow taking up almost all of his peripheral vision.  
  
"Ready or not," she says, her voice soft, her lids heavy. The dark red dress she wears is perfect for her lithe body, and he wants to take it off. Remembers sliding it off her shoulders, caressing that cheek, kissing those lips.  
  
He sits back, pretending to look unmoved. "You're here." 


	5. Pure

Deliver Us To Temptation  
Chapter 5: Pure  
  
Sydney is watching him out of the corner of her eye; he can feel her. But he can't stop, not now. A voice shouts in his ear—Eric. He ignores it. Subtly removes the comlink from his ear.  
  
He continues his conversation with the contact. It's working so much better than the original plan: follow her around until either he or Sydney can accidentally-on-purpose bump into her and take her left earring. She, Elena Interro, is daughter of the head of the Taipei cocaine trade.  
  
Her casual touching of his arm, his brushing hair out of her eyes; ordering her another drink, he almost forgets about the woman he's been after for years.  
  
The jade Grasshopper set on their tiny table forces him to remember in a hurry. Traces of her brown hair disappear from memory as Elena's platinum blonde hair is lightly whipped across his face when she hears her name. Her soft skin, sweet lips; they morph into those of the woman now before him. He thinks he has drunk too much, but four shots? Nothing compared to his college days. His mind should not be addled as it seems to be now.  
  
"Léon?"  
  
He shifts his attention back to Elena. Too easily. "Yes?" he replies, a heavy French accent dripping from his tongue.  
  
"I can't hear you. Let's go somewhere quieter."  
  
He knows she can hear him perfectly, yet he nods and follows her through the gaggle of people near the bar to a back wall, to a place with only a few couples around. It takes him a moment to realize that his hand is in hers as she leads him through the club. It's been too long since he held someone's hand. That simple act of compassion; an act he is not allowed to do back in Los Angeles. He's had sex recently, quite recently, but he hasn't held anyone's hand. The interwoven fingers have become a symbol of trust to him; why else would she pull him away from the rest of the crowd?  
  
It's the simple things he treasures, he discovers in the midst of loud music and heavy smoke. He doesn't follow through on that train of thought because he finds himself going through a back doorway until, somehow, he is in her apartment.  
  
There are no pretenses, but a flash of guilt passes through him when they first kiss. The rapid succession of the removal of their clothing and their movement towards her bedroom is followed by pure, unadultered passion. Raw sex. Heat.  
  
-  
  
She doesn't look at him for weeks. Doesn't speak for months. He knows what he did wrong, but wonders why she can't accept that he was following the objective, as he was supposed to. Eric tells him he is an idiot—constantly. Reminds him too many times that he has just lost the woman he had been lusting for and had gained less than two months before.  
  
Michael is finally pushed to tell Eric to shut the fuck up and leave him alone. The language isn't taken lightly, but Eric leaves. He doesn't speak to Michael for two weeks, but ends up breaking his vow of silence to apologize. Michael refuses to accept, walks away from the water cooler more quickly than he usually does.  
  
"You fucking idiot!" Eric shouts after him. "What is your problem? So you slept with the contact and Sydney doesn't give a shit about you anymore. That does not mean you have to act like a complete asshole to everyone else!"  
  
He puts in for the transfer soon after that. Subconsciously, he has noticed that he is acting less than polite to his colleagues, but they didn't say anything about it. Only Eric, his best friend, has the guts to tell him exactly what is on everyone's mind.  
  
When Sydney does speak to him, there are no calm words of forgiveness. There are no questions about his actions in Taipei. No chance of her possibly taking him back. Except...  
  
Michael?  
  
It's going to be so different when you're gone.  
  
We don't see each other than much anyway.  
  
How would I reach you?  
  
I guess this is it.  
  
Sydney.  
  
...It is. 


	6. Air

Deliver Us To Temptation  
Chapter 6: Air  
  
They watch one another, eyes locked. Seconds morph to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days, days to memories.  
  
Sydney. He was—is still so sure that she was dead, killed by his own hand. She was part of the past that he never wanted to revisit. Instead, it had come to him.  
  
"The bullet was extracted," she says, still standing. He doesn't think, doesn't offer her a seat; just stares, mouth closed and jaw set.  
  
This was not possible.  
  
Everything had been timed, right down to the second he fired the gun. Then he had been safely in the air, unworried yet nervous, where he could not be found. How could they have made it to her home so quickly? Unless it wasn't the gunshots that triggered their appearance...  
  
Finally, he stands, slipping the gun on the seat he had been sitting on. It has been more than a year since he has seen her, but she is still beautiful.  
  
"Sydney—" He stops himself. She is waiting for him to speak, but he doesn't have words. There is no apology, nor is there an answer.  
  
A question lies unanswered between them, somewhere above the clear top of his desk, blocking their view of each other.  
  
She looks down, speaking to the entities above floor. "I had to find you. I—I didn't remember you until just a few months ago; I didn't remember you at all, Vaughn. Michael."  
  
"Matthew."  
  
Her head turns sharply to the right—he is beside her, inches away, having drifted during her words. Neither knows what to do. She takes his left hand in both of hers, massaging it gently. They are on equal ground, at eye level. He speaks.  
  
"I had to forget." Her eyes show no sign of the rancor they should. He forces himself to continue. "I had to get rid of everything." He steps closer. "Everything."  
  
"I know," she replies, breathy. Both are whispering now; there is no need to expend the energy needed for their full timbres.  
  
"After that mission, I knew you would never speak to me again. I couldn't live without you, yet I was the one who pushed you away."  
  
"I'm here now, talking to you now." She presses against him; he can feel all of her even through the black jacket and partially-unbuttoned white shirt he is wearing. "It's now that matters, Michael."  
  
Her choice of his names surprises them both. She has brought her hands up to his chest, forcing his up with them. "I know, it's just—" He looks off to the side, unwilling to speak. "Sydney, I tried to kill you." He focuses on her face—the eyes he dreamed of, the lips he sometimes thought he felt.  
  
The silence deafens, but not before she clears his thoughts with one soft kiss that doesn't last long enough. "Michael, I love you. I will always love you. I don't think I would go through all through this to find you if I didn't. So what if I can't remember our past? It doesn't matter to me." Her lips brush against his again. "You matter to me."  
  
Why does she do this to him? That last night at her house, it had all been planned, but she had made it feel spontaneous. Every time he is near her, she stirs up something inside him that he has never felt before. New love has become passé; besides, they have been in love for years.  
  
She steps back, unwillingly freeing him of her. They share one last glance before she spins abruptly and leaves, leaving him alone in the middle of the room. He rubs his chest, her scent is still lingering. Something is in his breast pocket.  
  
Tucked neatly inside is a slip of paper with a number on it; separated, longitude and latitude. A location, written in her handwriting. 


	7. Touch

Deliver Us To Temptation  
Chapter 7: Touch  
  
She is standing alone when he arrives, both mingling with shadows until they are ready to look at one another properly. Dressed in all black, it is only his knowledge of the curves of her body that allows him to find her. He moves first, crossing the dull concrete between them in a brisk gait. She stands still, waiting, having taken enough of the initiative in their relationship.  
  
He doesn't kiss her at first, wondering if there are more words to say that he is incapable of thinking of. His conscience is overwhelmed by the fact that she is—of all things—alive. He hasn't touched the gun since the day she came to him, hasn't marveled at the eerie glow it seems to have, hasn't imagined the other scenario.  
  
The 'other' scenario has become his reality.  
  
This new reality, it still shocks both of them. The tension dangling in the air melts away as they touch. His hand caresses her cheek, her neck; his other is on her hip, thumb sliding over the soft skin under the hem of her tank. He finally leans down, cautiously, until their lips meet in a sweet embrace that quickly turns tsunami. His coat and shirt are off before they stop and break away for real oxygen, not the faux chemical they are running on.  
  
"Thank you," he says, uttering the words to no one and everyone as his arms go around her. She wraps hers around his neck, embracing his honesty, holding him tighter when he repeats it.  
  
"Thank you thank you thankyouthankyouthankyou—"  
  
"Michael," she starts, pulling away just enough so they can look one another in the eye. He stops her, speaking a touch below the whisper they are already at.  
  
"Sydney, thank you. Thank you for forgiving me, even though I can't ever forgive myself for what I did to you. Thank you for coming back." He kisses her again, but not long or deep enough. "Thank you," he murmurs into her ear, pushing his nose into the straight brown hair he always dreams about. She chokes on a sob; to her, his slurred words sound more like a profession of love than ever dependant thanks. "Iloveyou."  
  
-  
  
They are in Michael's penthouse, on the couch he doubts he ever noticed before. Their first night together had passed quickly, and it is now almost one week since the day she found him.  
  
Sydney is looking out the wall-to-wall windows across from her, tangling her fingers through Michael's hair in her lap. He lies, half asleep, more comfortable than any other time he can remember. How many times has he imagined this? Never in the past year. Too much when he was in Los Angeles.  
  
He opens his eyes and looks up at her, the early morning glow reflecting on her face. She is tired, but he can tell she is thinking about something important by the way she stares through the panes of glass. He wants to believe this is real, wants to know that he deserves this even after all he as done. "Sydney?"  
  
Michael has burst her train of thought, but she looks down and smiles. He comes up for a kiss and torques his body so he can sit up beside her. She takes his hand in hers, places it on her lap. Looks back out the window.  
  
He wants to, needs to explain. The words have formulated in a mangled order in his mind. Her head falls softly on his shoulder. He has to speak now. Now or never.  
  
They converse for hours, until the sun is shining perfectly in front of them but they fail to notice. Tears have fallen more than once, on both sides. He tells her everything he knows, and even more. Conjectures slip from her lips and the words following usually prove them true.  
  
Towards the end, the words were coming faster, louder. She calms him down, sqeezes his hand. His disbelief still lingers inside him, disappears with the words he can't make himself say. Wants to say. Had said before, so long ago.  
  
She is in the kitchen, searching for tea leaves or powder or bags, her sashay evident through the t-shirt and pajama bottoms she is wearing. He gets up and helps her on her quest, making small talk until she finally finds some tea bags in the back of a cupboard. She boils water on the range, claiming the microwave steals flavor. He laughs and slips an arm around her waist. Kisses her. They stand, eyes locked, until the boiling of the water fills their ears and she turns away to turn off the burner. 


	8. Written

Deliver Us To Temptation  
Chapter 8: Written  
  
He sits at his kitchen table, bent over piles of paper with a graphing calculator at his side. The late evening sun shines through the window across from him. To passersby, it looks as if he is doing his taxes. It certainly is that time of year.  
  
But he is not. He is planning the rest of his life. The calculator doubles as a state of the art tracking device. He watches the black dot move closer and closer to a building marked by the outline of a large rectangle. Inside the rectangle, pixels state that this is Mikro Self-Storage. The dot stops.  
  
Stage One: complete.  
  
He sits back and sighs. For weeks now, he has sat at this very table and furiously written on the papers before him. Bank accounts, insurance papers; everything must be checked and rechecked. It has all come down to this.  
  
He loosens his tie and rolls his neck, trying to clear his mind. He has relived that night too many times, wondering what he could have done differently.  
  
Oh, that's right. He could have accidentally-on-purpose bumped into Eleno Interro instead of sleeping with her.  
  
The shots are what he has blamed it on. Bourbon, it had mostly been. With twisted hints of vanilla. But somewhere inside, he places full blame on himself for Sydney shunning him.  
  
He had tried to go through one day, anticipating her apology that evening over wine. It had taken a while for him to consciously realize that he should have been the one apologizing. He still waited, eyes watching her every day as she laughed with a co-worker or spoke to her father.  
  
Weeks had passed, then months, when he noticed that she had begun to walk the long way around the Task Force Center rather than walk past him. It stung, deeply, but he had brushed it away.  
  
That's where he thinks it started. The whole "this life is over, I need a new one" complex that filled every part of him that Sydney had previously. It had been a project at first, contacting all the people he knew around the world that could make the different stages of the plan happen. Agents in France, Tokyo; underworld dealers. He had been surprised at the speed he was passing milestones with.  
  
Eventually it had consumed him, robbed him of other thoughts. When he had put in for the transfer—he refuses to tell anyone the truth, instead pretending he had been transferred without his approval—the beginnings of everything started to come together. Devlin had been shocked. Jack Bristow had stared that cold stare of his, showing no emotion yet conveying no confusion, as if he had known the truth. But if he had known Michael's plans, he hadn't told anyone.  
  
-  
  
It had happened on an airplane, on the way to Trinidad.   
  
Sydney sits reading "The Death of Vishnu." Behind her, two of the newer agents are discussing their massive amounts training. A large part of this 'training' had been studying videos of and real agents. Sydney knows that she is one of the model agents used in training; she had to consent. When the voices behind her suddenly become almost nonexistent, she knows that they are talking about her. What they don't realize is that the curve of the airplane causes their entire conversation to drift into Sydney's ears.  
  
"She's amazing, really. And I'm not just saying that because she is fucking hot." Sydney fights the urge to laugh openly; she is completely used to agents just a few years younger drooling over her.  
  
"You're such a guy, Tom."  
  
"Come on, Maddy, you have to admit it."  
  
"I don't deny that she is amazingly beautiful. And she's so strong... I observed her on a mission last month. It was like perpetual motion."  
  
"Hmm." A sharp sound; Sydney glances backwards and sees Madison playfully slap Thomas.  
  
"You're jealous of me observing her?"  
  
"Not only that. I'm jealous of the guy from the videos."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"What?"  
  
"All you care about is sex, isn't it? You know we're not supposed to talk about Agent Michael Vaughn."  
  
Sydney shuts the book with a loud snap. She stands and faces the two shocked agents.  
  
"Who is that?"  
  
"Pardon?" Thomas asks feebly. Madison looks too scared for words.  
  
"Who is Michael Vaughn?" There is a hint of anger as she continues drilling for information. Finally, Madison spills. Thomas sits silently, slouching in his seat.  
  
Sydney had been in love with Michael Vaughn, until he slept with the target on a mission in Taipei. She had given him the cold shoulder for almost ten months after that, refusing to acknowledge that he was alive until the day he was transfering to Paris. He had apparently come to her house to shoot her, point blank, and ran. Two bullets had been found: one embedded in her, one in the bed she was found on—nude. There was speculation that it wasn't really him who shot her, but the Agency's records said it had been. The day she had been shot was the last day anyone had heard of him. He had just slipped off the map, far from big brother's searching eye.  
  
At the end, Madison is sobbing, crying into her hands. Thomas is sitting on the edge of his seat warily, uncertain of his position. Sydney is still standing, hand gripping her chair. She cannot believe she had forgotten. Over a year, and she still had not remembered. She had been warned that she would experience memory loss, but on one subject—is that even possible?  
  
Sydney slides down and leans against her chair, staring off into space. A single tear slides down her cheek, followed by no more. She removes the ring on her right hand and studies the engraving inside the platinum band. It hits a window across from her with a loud ping, leaving a slight ringing noise in their ears. She clenches her fists and halts another tear from making its way down her cheek, finally knowing what SM stands for. 


	9. Rage

Deliver Us To Temptation  
Chapter 9: Rage  
  
The first time had been carnivorous, and the second tender, but the third is a shock to them both.  
  
They sit at his seemingly elegant dinette, cups full of tea wrapped tightly with their hands. She sips quietly, staring at his legs through the glass tabletop. There is a lot of glass in his house. She stores that fact in her mind and smiles at him, looking up and catching just the end of his sentence.  
  
"—and it just makes me wonder."  
  
"What?"  
  
He looks deep into her eyes, searching. She watches his lips move more than listen to their words. "Sydney, there's no easy way to put this. I just can't help—why did you forgive me?"  
  
Her smiles sticks, jaw setting as her mind races in an effort to create an answer. She can't read his mind, or she could come up with the perfect answer to his question. While flying over, she had prepared for this question, but the standby answer was straying far from her grasp at the moment.  
  
She holds the mug on her thigh, reaches for his hand with her other hand. Takes a deep breath before speaking. "Michael, I can't tell you that." She continues, talking past his shocked expression. "Because I don't know that myself. I just—" she strokes his thumb, organizing the words in her head "—You were such a large part of my life. When we were trying to take down SD-6, how many times did you comfort me when things weren't working out? How many times did you tell me that they would? Even after we started seeing each other, how many times did we go out only to sit at some outdoor café smiling at one another? I was so in love, Michael; so in love." She blinks quickly, surprised that real tears were making their way past her eyelids. "You weren't my first love. You weren't my second love, even. But there you were that day, watching me in my bozo hair writing the hell out of those ballpoint pens." A slight laugh bubbles in her throat, but she chokes. "I had to find you."  
  
And with that she puts her cup on the table, coasters forgotten, and they both stand, matched in a stellar kiss as she pushes him to the counter. They turn, neither lips nor hands leaving the others' body, and he helps her on to the countertop, her fingers running through his dirty blond hair.  
  
-  
  
Total darkness surrounds him when he finally opens his eyes. He blinks, forcing his pupils to dilate and allow him to focus. He turns his head and shouts, scrambles off the bed, pulls half the sheets with him.  
  
Beside where he had been lying is a dagger, glinting in the minute amount of moonlight making its way through the drawn shades. Where is she?  
  
He goes back to the bed, pulls the weapon out of his twelve-hundred dollar mattress. The edges are curved; he can see a definite wave pattern as he turns it over and studies it.  
  
It falls to his side as he steps back, staring at the bed. This isn't the first time he has woken up without her, hell this isn't the fifth. But where the fuck is she? He listens for noise from the bathroom. Complete silence.  
  
He can't go back to sleep now, nor can he call one of his contacts to start tracking her. That would prove that he had seen her in the first place. His feet slap the hardwood floor as he makes his way to the kitchen.  
  
Who gives a damn if she left him? He had left her for dead back in Los Angeles. Had that been her intention all along: kill him in a slow, planned revenge? Oh god, he can't even think about that. She had forgiven him, though, for everything he had done...  
  
He stops as gallons of moonlight pour on him through the windows. He can make out a silhouette far across the room from him. It's her. She has a gun pointed at him, but the tears are flowing.  
  
"Sydney—"  
  
"Don't! I can't kill you, you know I can't, but I will hurt you!"  
  
He takes a step towards her and she shouts once more.  
  
"Vaughn, don't! I'll shoot!"  
  
"You don't want to do this, Sydney. You don't want this—"  
  
"Who the hell are you to tell me what I want or don't want? You tried to kill me! You fucking tried to kill me! You shot me point blank and ran, ran away to this place where so much had already happened. Did you try to stay with the bad memories, Vaughn? Did you purposely try to forget me? Did you?"  
  
"Sydney, please, I—"  
  
"Stop! I swear, I'll shoot—"  
  
"Sydney—"  
  
A shot. The loud, piercing shatter of millions of square centimeters of glass falling onto polished wood as she jumps into the darkened abyss. 


	10. Run

Deliver Us To Temptation  
  
Chapter 10: Run  
  
The rope catches, but none too soon. A sharp intake of breath as she readies herself for a harsh slam against someone's living room window. God she doesn't know why she left him but she does. That love...  
  
Had she been lying?  
  
Yes. She had lied to herself and Vaughn and her heart and everything in between. Once upon a time, when the world was still real and nothing contrived, she had loved him truly. She imagines she still does, but—like him—she had run. Except she had been chasing instead of escaping.  
  
-  
  
He drops to his knees. Is this possible? Did she really just jump? He wants to forget, pretend like this is a dream, but stray shards of glass from his once-beautiful window are beneath his knees. He can see blood trickling already.  
  
A million and one questions are sitting on his mind. But the topic fogging over them, what makes him even more clueless than he is already: She had forgiven him.  
  
Of course, that had been a lie, a smokescreen. And it had worked. An eye for an eye—or, in this case, a bullet for a bullet. She had aimed behind her with the gun as she jumped, using the bullet's impact on the glass as segueway for her departure. It was ingenious.  
  
He can't help marveling at this unbelievable woman.  
  
-  
  
With a furiously loud crash, she flies. More glass surrounds her when she lands on the floor, clear speckles digging into her palms as she cartwheels to soften her landing. A scream and a shout welcome her, and two completely nude beings scramble away from her in shock. The man searches beneath the coffee table without removing his eyes from her, until he has a silver gun pointing at her.  
  
"Don't shoot!" She catches his and her eyes, trying to speak earnestly. "Please, I just need to—"  
  
She makes a mad dash for the door and kicks it down, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through her system. Bullets follow her as she runs through the labyrinth of hallways, finally reaching a fire escape.  
  
-  
  
The blood is staining his rich hardwood floors. A cool night breeze is drifting through the nonexistent window and makes every hair on his body stand on end, each crying out for heat.  
  
He finds himself standing, moving, reaching into the secret panel of the freezer, holding up the gun. Light shines on it, reflecting, and for some reason he is reminded of the night she returned. He sees her before him in that red dress, lusty voice speaking few but many words. He sees himself slipping the gun into his pocket, expecting a customer. What did he end up with? The opposite of a customer. His past, his future, his everything.  
  
He cocks the gun but can't pull the trigger. There is no energy in his index finger. God, why can't he pull the fucking trigger?  
  
Maybe, he realizes, it's time to run. Again.  
  
-  
  
She takes the stairs two, three, four at a time. She's flying again, but doesn't acknowledge the feeling because of the fear that is beginning to creep over her. The endless questions: What if I don't make it? What if I'm not fast enough? What if he shoots me?  
  
At that she almost laughs. How many times has she been shot at and survived? She leaps to the bottom of the staircase and forces her way through the door marked clearly in three different languages, "Emergency Exit Only." The alarm goes off behind her.  
  
-  
  
His consciousness is beginning to return. It's like an amazing trip but no acid involved. The most wonderful high he has ever felt. He pulls on his most comfortable jeans, black t-shirt, leather jacket. Smooth criminal.  
  
He grabs only a fistful of cash (American, British, French, Chinese) and his gym membership card, which doubles as his international identification. He leaves the door open as he exits, flooding the flat with the buzzing of the fire alarm he ignores. 


	11. New

Deliver Us To Temptation  
  
Chapter 11: New  
  
Vaughn. Michael. Matthew. God, who the hell does he think he is? Fucking bossing her around like that. Is he not the same person who attempted to kill her (and believed he did)? Did he forget or something? How do you forget a thing like that? Shouldn't that plague your mind and conscious and your every waking moment?  
  
The ding of the train's arrival at the next stop causes her pounding migraine to return. Her fingers automatically fly to her temples. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembers that she didn't get migraines before, when she was complying with the law, government agents' law at least. When she wasn't on the run from the people who created those very laws. In fact, in that same place in the back of her mind, she can pinpoint the exact date the migraines started.  
  
Three fucking months and it's still all she can think about.  
  
She's created a whole new life, the perfect alias, the perfect distractions. Sarah Verdi, no relation to any famous being that ever existed, started out as a salesgirl and then the manager of one of Paris's hottest perfume boutiques. She had found it ironic at first that the country she had ended up in was the mother country of the man she loathed. Yet, as she fell in love with the country and a local police officer named Dominic, it was one of the first things she told herself she forgot.  
  
-  
  
She had stowed in a UPS airplane for a ride back to Los Angeles. She had had no appetite during the long crossing of the Pacific, or the stopover in Hawai'i. Adrenaline was as much a drug as an appetite supressant. Or a fuel for anger, for that matter. She caught herself trembling with anger in repeated instances while her mind's eye showed him, nearly naked, staring as she jumped out of his flat. As much as it aroused her (looking at someone with green eyes now aroused her, but she paid no attention anymore), she just could not fathom how he was living the lie that was his life.  
  
It was while on the plane that she had noticed the first signs of what would become a recurring splitting headache. It was the first time she felt such raw hatred at such high amounts. No, this was nothing compared to Arvin Sloane. Arvin Sloane was a kitten that had accidentally scratched her couch compared to this.  
  
-  
  
The jeans he has kept. They've become a staple part of his wardrobe, something he can pair with a coat and shirt for the clubs or a white shirt for relaxing. The jacket and t-shirt have long since been trashed. They each received multiple bulletholes from his first attempt to make himself known in the new place. Eventually, word got around that this was indeed God, Matthew, unbelievably famous thanks to his work in Taipei.  
  
The gym membership card, now that is a different story. He still has that, keeps it in his wallet or pants pocket, fiddles with it when he feels particularly sullen or is reminded of someone. It's useless, has been since he left Los Angeles oh so long ago, but he keeps it incase some idiot from CIA or MI6 or any agency of equivalency is assigned to infiltrate his system. Which isn't possible, he's made sure of that, because the system is only on one computer, and only he controls it. The people below him, they know nothing, never knew anything, only that they take orders from God and God only. Another advantage of his system.  
  
He has long since rid of the cash. It was dirty, he has it cleaned by creating Ecstasy (one learns such things in the underworld) and selling it at ridicoulous prices out of dance clubs in Paris. He caters to the younger crowd mostly, fitting in perfectly with his ever-present good looks and wardrobe. It's amazing shit, way bigger than back in Taipei. The 'V' imprint has become famous; he can go to a bar in some hick town in the middle of nowhere, France, and hear someone claiming they sell the original Vs.   
  
He's never tried it himself. Of course not, that would be so uncivilized of him. But keeps up the pretense that he can't live without it, and too many unsuspecting buyers believe him. He has a new girl every week (it has been Marietta as of last Tuesday) for fucking only, and they know it. As a return, he offers the girl the V at discount prices. It's a way of killing multiple birds with one stone, really. He has repeat buyers, a steady flow of cash, and beatiful women dripping off the ceiling.  
  
He never calls it 'the life,' though. He's careful of that. He knows that if she comes back, which he knows she will, they will both run again. 


	12. Method

Deliver Us To Temptation  
  
Chapter 12: Method  
  
"It's one of our hottest scents right now, Madame. Would you like to try it on?"  
  
"Non, non." She flicks her wrist and looks away, signifying her disinterest. Sydney, however, knows otherwise. She didn't become the youngest branch manager Nicolas had ever seen by letting things be.  
  
"Mais, Madame! I know it will be amazing on you. You must try it on..."  
  
The woman's eyes return to Sydney's too quickly, shining with the excitement she had attempted to hide. "Mmm, it really is beautiful. I will take it. Put it on my bill."  
  
"Yes, Madame. We will post it on the fifteenth as scheduled."  
  
"Bon." She leans in conspiratorially. "Now, tell me about this Dominic gentleman Nicola had mentioned." It is in times like these that Madame Beaufort proves just how recently she had gone from Madmoiselle to Madame.  
  
Sydney has long since taught herself to blush by instinct when the gentle police officer she loves is mentioned. "He is a very nice man. I met him—" She stops suddenly, mouth half open, openly staring at the man entering the boutique.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
She smiles and continues, returning her gaze to the woman before her. "I met him just outside one day. I couldn't get a taxi and he offered to take me home."  
  
"Oh, that is so romantic! When is the wedding?"  
  
"We haven't set a date yet, but I will be sure to send you an invitation."  
  
"Sarah, you are too kind."  
  
"I am only returning the favor, Véronique. Your wedding was lovely." Her eyes stray to the man once more as she receives a reply. He is standing speaking on his cellphone, looking out the large window that makes up the entire storefront.  
  
Sydney cuts her off. "I'm sorry, Véro, but Nicola is busy and there is a customer I should take care of."  
  
"I'm sorry. I will see you soon, in a wedding dress I hope!"  
  
Sydney gives her a quick smile as she starts towards the man. He clicks off his phone and turns towards her. They both start as they finally lock eyes on one another. Sydney finds words and speaks. "Bonjour, Monsieur, I am Sarah. Are you looking for something specific today?"  
  
"Yes. Do you have any American imports, such as Calvin Klein?" He drives her to her origin, rather painfully, and she has to shake herself as she pastes a smile on her face.  
  
"Right over here." She leads him to a corner of the store where no one is, rambling about their various choices as they walk. When they reach their destination, she stops and he speaks in Russian.  
  
"How long have you been here?" He skips all shock of discovering her alive. She has long since suspected that he knew that she had not died that night, and this only proves it.  
  
She stutters slightly in her answer. "I'm sorry, Monsieur, I do not under—"  
  
He repeats his question, more roughly this time, as his cell phone starts a two-beep pattern. He turns it off without removing his eyes from hers.  
  
"Almost three months." The language feels foreign on her tongue even as she replies automatically. "And you?"  
  
"Longer."  
  
"Are you famous again?" she asks sarcastically. He grabs her wrist, almost sweeping her off her feet. He removes his hand quickly, shocked at his reaction to her question. He clears his face of emotion.  
  
"Of course. Haven't you heard? Or are you personally involved with my V imprint?"  
  
She looks at the bottles of perfume before her. "I thought that was you."  
  
"Did you?"  
  
She doesn't say anything. He takes a cellphone out of a different pocket in his black coat and puts it in her hand. She stares at the tiny silver box of metal and wires. "I'll talk to you soon."  
  
She watches him leave with an amount of surprise that rivals that of when he first entered. 


	13. Contact

Deliver Us To Temptation  
  
Chapter 13: Contact  
  
It is impossible to make that pre-wedding glow disappear. At first, Sydney had had to remind herself to paste a smile on her face at all times, gaze at Dominic or stare into space, pondering her future. Eventually, she found herself falling for that charm Sarah Verdi fell for. It was as if her subconscious took over all the things she made herself do consciously.  
  
Still, she has not fallen in love. It's still all an act, but she doesn't know who it's for anymore.  
  
-  
  
They have been to three other stores already before Sarah finally turns to Dominic with those beautiful green eyes of hers. "Darling, can we do the last one over the internet? I don't feel like walking through any more stores with that ridiculous machine."  
  
"It's not ridiculous, it's ingenious. But we can go home now. I just have to call and tell them that we won't be coming." He takes his cell phone out of the clip on his belt it is attached to. "Let me step outside for a moment, Sarah; I can't get a signal inside the building." She nods and watches him leave, turning to admire a wooden salad bowl set.  
  
As she meanders between the displays of tableware, a faint ringing starts. She looks around to see if anyone near her is ignoring their cell phone. Four displays later, she realizes that the ringing is coming from her purse. Confusion crosses her face for a moment, because she didn't bring her cell. Then she remembers.  
  
Quickly, she removes the tiny silver rectangle and puts it to her ear. "What?" She can hear laughter on the other end.  
  
"Now that's not the way to greet an old friend, is it Sydney?"  
  
"What makes you think you're an old friend of mine?"  
  
"Don't kid yourself."  
  
"Likewise."  
  
"Hmm. Listen, Sydney, be outside your apartment at eleven-fifteen tonight."  
  
"No. I don't even live in that apartment anymore." She waits for him to respond, and when he says nothing, she continues. "If you have nothing else to say, I'd like to hang up now because my fiancé is going to return at any moment."  
  
"You don't have to worry about him any longer, Sydney. He just met another old friend of mine." Suddenly, Sydney hears only herself breathing.  
  
"No!"  
  
-  
  
Michael ends the phone call and turns in his chair. He stares out the window that makes up the back wall to his office. Behind him, he hears footsteps.  
  
"What was done?" he asks.  
  
"We have him."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Downstairs."  
  
Michael stands and faces the woman before of him. "Well, this proves to be interesting." He walks up to the door. "Take me to him."  
  
-  
  
Sydney stands outside the architecturally extravagant building. She looks up into the sky and falls against the white concrete outer wall. The phone drops from her hand.  
  
"God, Vaughn. Why do you do this to me?"  
  
-  
  
A slow smile spreads across Michael's face. "So, you are the infamous policeman."  
  
Dominic struggles against the ropes that have tied him to the reinforced aluminum chair. "I assure you, I am not infamous."  
  
Michael does not miss a beat. "So, you understand Arabic."  
  
"As well as Turkish, English, German, and Polish." He falls slack and attempts to wipe his forehead on his shoulder.  
  
"Well, it's a surprise you didn't go into International Relations."  
  
"Where am I? And why am I here?"  
  
"We'll get to that in time. Let's talk about Sydney."  
  
"My step-mother?"  
  
"Your fiancée."  
  
He laughs and looks to his right, where a telltale mirror stretches across the wall. He speaks to the mirror. "You have the wrong man." Michael leans over and grabs his shirt just below the collar. Dominic grunts, turning this way and that to get out of the iron grip.  
  
"See, that's where you're wrong. Sydney Bristow is an American secret agent, posing as the sexy businesswoman you've fallen so hopelessly in love with."   
  
"No."  
  
"Yes." He stands up and leans carelessly against a wall. "I'm not a cop. On the other side of that mirror is a hollow filled with one pound of C-4. You know as well as I what that can do. I've had all audio-visual connections to this room severed. This room is encased in concrete, in the sub-basement of my business headquarters. No one but you and I will know what happens."  
  
"Why are you telling me this? What is it you want? Are you trying to get a ransom? Is that it?"  
  
"Oh, quite the contrary. I don't need money; I have all money I ever wished for."  
  
"Do you enjoy killing people?"  
  
Michael ignores him. "I only want you to break off the engagement or suffer the consequences." He indicates the mirror with his chin.  
  
"I won't do that."  
  
"You're bluffing."  
  
"I am a police officer. If I agree, how do you know that I won't tell my superiors what went on here?"  
  
"You're a good man. You're a police officer."  
  
Dominic is silent in his reply. Finally, he looks up, sorrow draped across his features. "Would you do this for her?"  
  
"Do what?" he snaps.  
  
"Sacrifice your life for her?"  
  
He stares into the other man's eyes. "I already have." 


	14. Taken

Deliver Us To Temptation  
  
Chapter 14: Taken  
  
"Sir, there's someone here to see you."  
  
Michael looks up, surprise eminent on his face. "Can I get a visual?"  
  
"Already on. Port 4."  
  
He pushes the 4 on the dialpad of his cell phone and flips it open. Stares at the picture. "Bring her— No, I'll— Give me a second."  
  
"Yes, sir." The woman backs out the door.  
  
Michael sits pondering for a few seconds. He can believe she's found him, but a smile starts as he wonders how she found him. She had always been smart.  
  
He blows through the door and towards the elevator. His footsteps are evenly spaced and echoing; he can feel his assistant staring at him. The door opens immediately and he steps in, not looking back. It closes behind him. "Lobby," he says, looking at Paris through the window that is the elevator's back wall. A slight humming sound starts as the elevator zips its way to the bottom floor. He spins around when it stops and the door opens once more.  
  
She faces away from him, leaning ever-so-slightly on the large receptionists' desk. She is wearing a short black skirt with a tailored long-sleeved white shirt. Her hair is in a perfect updo; strands of it have fallen and are framing her face or tucked behind her ear. Black sunglasses are in her left hand, whose fingers are drumming the black marble of the desk. Over her right shoulder is the strap of a small black purse. At the end of her long legs is a pair of black stilettos.  
  
He comes up behind her, somehow silent in the empty lobby. He stands millimeters away from her, and he can feel her stiffen when she notices his presence. He swears he can feel her pressing into him when he kisses her neck just below her right ear.  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
"I could ask you the same thing myself."  
  
She turns and steps back, putting two feet of safety between them. "Oh, really? Well, let me tell you what I'm doing here. I am here to get my fiancé back or kill you; either is fine with me."  
  
"Quite coldblooded, I see."  
  
"Look at yourself."  
  
He looks slightly to his right, out the doors of the main entrance. "I must admit, I thought you would get here earlier."  
  
"Well, I couldn't. But I'm here now."  
  
"That's nice." A sarcastic smile crosses her features. "Follow me." He turns and goes to the elevator he had come down on. It opens without his pressing any buttons.  
  
"Where?" she asks, suspicious, no doubt, of the person she refuses to remember. He doesn't answer. She follows him into the box reluctantly, and both are silent during the thirty second ride downwards. At the end, the doors open to a hallway made of cement. Sydney brings her hand up and tightens her hold on the purse. Michael stops in front of an unmarked door. He opens it for her and looks straight into her eyes before she walks in.  
  
"Sarah! Oh God, Sarah! I thought he would kill me!"  
  
She takes him in her arms and looks at the man standing outside watching them with his harsh green eyes. How do you say thank you to a man you once loved? She shuts her eyes and a tear slides down her cheek. You can't.  
  
Not when you're still in love with him.  
  
-  
  
He leaves early, leaving Aline in charge until his night assistant comes. He gives her no hurried directions as he usually does, just steps onto the elevator and looks back at her with pure remorse as the doors close on him.  
  
Not wanting to run into any dealers or buyers, Michael goes to the underground garage and drives away in his generic Citröen. He speeds on all the back roads he knows, higher when he knows he's alone. It feels like only minutes have passed by the time he reaches the cottage on the coast.  
  
Darkness had fallen hours ago, but he parks the car and walks calmly through the black world from memory. He stands at the door for almost a minute, just staring at the oak door that has endured so many years.   
  
Finally, he turns the knob—he knows it's unlocked—and pushes it open. He stands, shocked at the light the room is bathed in. Someone has lit a fire. From the couch near the fireplace, that someone stands and looks towards him. A thick blanket is wrapped around them, altering their silhouette. They speak at a level just above a squeak. He can tell that they have been crying.  
  
"Vaughn?" 


	15. Rise

Deliver Us To Temptation  
  
Chapter 15: Rise  
  
Michael leans against the counter, his left hand wrapped around a mug of cold coffee. He stares into the black abyss, because that's what it is, because it feels as if everything is falling into a hole that he cannot find.  
  
Sydney is in the next room sitting in front of the fire, huddled under a blanket, most likely still trembling. His harsh words must have fallen through the hole with the Sydney he thought he knew.  
  
Hindsight is every person's worst enemy. It's a given. Even with his new life, even though he has purposely been careful so he wouldn't have to worry about things like hindsight. But that theory had been thrown out when she decided to find him.  
  
And that, after fifteen minutes of staring at a coffee cup, is all he has come up with. And it is pretty much all-encompassing. He was rich, he was famous, he was living the life, and then she showed up. She had the audacity to show up and ruin his whole fucking plan.  
  
He turns and dumps the liquid into the sink. Ahh, he realizes, here is that hole everyone's been raving about. Too late.  
  
Setting the empty mug on the small circular table, he starts exiting the kitchen. And stops. Looks back at the table. It feels like yesterday they were sitting at his glass table in Taipei, drinking some dark caffeine-rich liquid, sorting through the mess they had each created. But it wasn't, because yesterday was the day he had opened the door to his grandmother's cabin and found Sydney inside. Because yesterday was the day he had been remembering fucking her. Because yesterday was the day he had uttered every mean, angry, condescending phrase he knew.  
  
Because yesterday ended thirty minutes ago.  
  
-  
  
She looks up instinctively. Michael stands far way from her. Her eyelids flutter down, pretending they'd never moved in the first place. It doesn't matter; it isn't her looking he's looking at.  
  
He speaks as he walks toward the fire, staring into the deep orange and gold.  
  
"When I came here, it was to get away from you. I went to Taipei to escape from you. Come to think about it, most of my life on earth has been spent trying to get away from you."  
  
She's hurt. It's as if he has erased three years from his memory. But she says nothing, does nothing.  
  
"And, to be honest, I wasn't thrilled when you found me at my club, but you probably know that. My actions tend to speak louder than my words."   
  
Her irises peek out from beneath her eyelashes, hoping for some eye contact. 'Ask, and ye shall receive' doesn't seem to apply at the moment. He takes a deep breath; she can see his shoulders rise.  
  
"Quite a bit louder. It's funny—when I found you at the perfume shop it was purely accidental. I was planning to buy a gift for my assistant. I had no idea you would be in Paris, of all places. I thought you'd go back; I thought you couldn't spend a day without your friends or your father. Yes, I know what you're thinking. Of course I walk around with extra cell phones. Who knows when I meet new business partners?"  
  
Now he turns, his eyes finally falling on her face. "I came here to be alone, but it seems you have abolished that thought from my mind. I'll be—I'll be on the beach."  
  
With that, he walks away, taking his coat from the back of the couch as he walks past it. He doesn't look back to see her reaction, instead walks out the door.  
  
-  
  
Sydney stares at the shadowy figure as it leaves the confines of the cottage. She is conflicted. Half of her wants to sit in shock, perhaps weep a bit more. The other half wants to run after him, to take his hands in hers and his lips as hers. She stands, haltingly, unable to move as blood is finally able to flow freely into her legs. And she runs.  
  
-  
  
"Vaughn!"  
  
He's already too far ahead. She runs, muscles already aching; it's been a while since she has run like this.  
  
What is he doing? He won't stop! He's—he's walking into the sea!  
  
"Vaughn!"  
  
He can't hear her. He has to—he must! She wants him to hear every thought that's flying through her head. "Vaughn!"  
  
He stops, for less than a moment. But she notices. Her legs move faster.  
  
"Vaughn, please! Don't do this!" She's reached the surf, she wading in water that's quickly becoming waist-deep. "We aren't star-crossed lovers or any of that shit neither of us believes in! You know how I feel about you. The first time we slept together. Remember? Remember that? God, it was amazing. You were amazing—we were amazing. We are amazing together, Vaughn!"  
  
The water reaches his neck, his chin. Why is he not stopping?  
  
It becomes harder for her to run. She struggles against the tide, arms flailing, trying to reach him in time— 


	16. Ease

Deliver Us To Temptation  
  
Chapter 16: Ease  
  
Everywhere, everything around her—white. God, the color that is really every color put together can really get annoying. She attempts to stand and walk away. Her legs are frozen. Her legs are—what?  
  
In a panic, she pushes white sheet covering her legs to the ground. Two legs, sitting right in front of her. She still cannot move them. Her lips part; she forces out a soundless scream.  
  
-  
  
Her eyelids flutter open. Bright white is surrounding her. She throws off the sheet on her lower body and sighs when she is able to move her legs.  
  
Thirty feet in front of her, a door opens. In walks Michael busy with his coffee, which he promptly drops when he sees her awake. The splash radius covers his shoes and the hem of his slacks, but he ignores it and flies to her side. As soon as she can really look into his eyes, the façade slips into place and he acts nonchalant.  
  
"What happened to me?" Ah, the question of the year. Her voice is hoarse, and he pauses before replying.  
  
He calmly sits on the chair beside her bed. "You collapsed. I found you in the doorway when I returned."  
  
She's quiet, questioning his answer. She is not the type prone to fainting spells. "How long have I been in here?"  
  
"Two days."  
  
Sydney looks past him, through the little window in the door. Michael sits on a chair near her.  
  
"How long have you been here?"  
  
He fails to speak. She knows the answer. Why would he waste two more days of his life on her? Her throat is oddly dry as she formulates a response.  
  
"You wouldn't happen to have some scotch, would you?"  
  
He chuckles, his smile causing one to assimilate on her face. "Do I seem like the kind of person that would give a hospital patient alcohol?"  
  
"You're not the average person."  
  
"You're right—normal people have values."  
  
"And ethics."  
  
"And normal lives."  
  
His comment makes her laugh, albeit slightly. "Thanks for staying," she almost whispers. He remains mute; the smile starts to fade.  
  
They sit in silence until the doctor appears, two hours later.  
  
-  
  
Without a word uttered between them, Michael helps Sydney into his small car and they soon arrive at his grandmother's cabin. He turns to her as he pulls the key out of the ignition.  
  
"I don't know what you're planning to do, but you're welcome to stay here." She turns to look out her window and he abruptly changes his chain of thoughts. "Or I can buy you a ticket to anywhere you want to go." He knows the offer is tempting—hell, if the choice had been his, he'd be on his way to Trinidad about now. She turns back to him, a smile on her countenance, eyes warm.  
  
"I'd rather stay here, if it's okay with you." She opens the door to get out and Michael follows her lead, the beginnings of a smile crossing his face.  
  
-  
  
"Mm, I can't remember the last time I had pizza!" A string of cheese stretches between the slice and Sydney's mouth, and she laughs as she bites it off.  
  
"I get them sent from Italy. Nothing like a Chicago style deep-dish, but it's pizza nonetheless."  
  
"It's amazing, even reheated. I'm not surprised you have half a dozen sitting in your car." Her eyes flicker towards the television screen and she says, "So what's this movie about?"  
  
"To tell you the truth, I have no idea." Sydney giggles. "I felt like watching something in English. I don't even know if it's American."  
  
"Probably some of that crap Hollywood puts out every year."  
  
"Most likely." He stands and goes into the kitchen. He opens up the cupboard he knows contains wineglasses and stares at them, wondering if sharing a bottle would be out of context. What the hell, he thinks as he takes two out, all I want to do right now is get drunk. 


End file.
